Nibelungentreue
by ArwenLalaith
Summary: Those who want to live, let them fight and those who do not want to fight in this world of eternal struggle do not deserve to live - Adolf Hitler. Scattered through history, the team must fight if they wish to reunite and return home alive.
1. A Wrinkle in Time

_Chapter One - Hotch  
January 12, 1945_

Today is January 12, 1945. A Friday.

I know because I've been counting. Counting days. Counting weeks. Counting months. Counting for damn near a year. The worst year of my life.

Most people here lost track early on or didn't even bother trying, knowing where we were going, what our fate would be. I decided I had to because that was the only way I'd stay sane, knowing I'd made it through one more day, hoping that the next would contain the chance of rescue.

I got here, by which I mean Germany, on Valentine's Day. Ironic, since I would have no love for the place. I looked at the newspaper the day I arrived. It was pretty close, considering that the team's plans for the Family Day long weekend had been so rudely interrupted by the case on the tenth.

I lost track for a few days during the transport. I was impossible to see the rise and fall of the sun from the train-cars, packed so full of people we were denegraded to the level of animals. That's all we were. All we are. Scum. Filth. Inhuman.

When I got here, by which I mean Auschwitz, on the twentieth. It took so long because the train had broken down for two days during transport. Reid told me when he found me.

Today is the beginning of the end.

Today, the Soviet forces breached the German defenses and took Warsaw. They continue their ever persistent march towards the gates of Auschwitz.

They must not find any evidence of what was done here. A month and a half ago, when intelligence of the Soviet approach first reached the ears of Himmler and the SS, the orders came to destroy the gas chambers and the crematoria, the worst of the horrors. I know because of Reid. They are almost all gone now, except for one last gas chamber which the officers will destroy themselves when the time comes. For now, they need it to take care of loose ends.

When the Soviets get closer, those capable will be forced on death marches to other cites from which they will be transported to other camps. Anyone who is not strong enough for the journey, not fit for more work, will be liquidated.

I have been here for nearly a year. Working. Dying.

I have a feeling I will not be one of those chosen to make the journey. I have a feeling many will die today.

A/N: By the way, in case you were wondering about the title (pronounced: Nib-a-lung-in-true), it's an old German word from mythology meaning 'blood brotherhood'. It was used during WWI to describe the League of Three Emperors. Also, during WWII, Hitler used the myth (called the _Nibelungenlied_) as a strongly nationalist message to gain support.


	2. Goodnight, Farewell

_Chapter Two - Hotch  
January, 1945_

There is not one thing about our lives that the Germans have not been able to pervert. Even our words are not safe. Words I thought I understood, that I used often, now turn to ash in my mouth. I cannot use them anymore for they no longer carry the same meaning.

Hunger. Pain. Work. Chimney. Transport. Selection. Death. They are like thorns falling from my tongue.

Nothing is the same.

The furnaces, the 'delousing' chambers, have been going nonstop lately. The guards think we do not notice, we do not know. But people are leaving never to return, more so than ever, and that concerns us all. If not because we care for them, then because we care for ourselves.

It is not a pleasant truth, but that is the reality of life in the camp.

They are preparing for the end, cutting their losses. The Soviets are coming. If they find no prisoners, no gas chambers, no crematoria, then they will never know what happened here. Or so the thinking goes.

I am among those commissioned with destroying the gas chambers. Brick by brick, we hide the evidence of the crimes committed against us. I ache down to my very soul as the weight of all the lives snuffed out here sits upon my shoulders, voices crying out _'How could you? How can you wash away what happened to us here? Why must you kill us a second time?'_

Today, while working, I found a tiny mitten, as could only have belonged to a child. I remembered the countless tiny children, beautiful little girls with sad eyes and young boys crying to stay with their daddy, who I had seen being marched to their death. I imagined them standing in the dark room, frightened, clinging tightly to their mothers' hands, not understanding what was happening. They had been told they were going the be 'deloused' and then taken to their barracks; then why did everyone cry as they waited?

I slipped the tiny mitten into the pocket I had sewn into the inside of my shirt to hide Reid's shared rations. I felt myself crying for the little soul to whom it had once belonged; I had told myself I would not – could not – cry, but I could not help it now. I worked harder to cover it.

Those who did not work hard enough would be punished. I had seen it before. It would not be the last time.

As if to prove my point, right then, one of the men in my barracks cut himself on one of the splintered stones. As his forearm bled profusely, he stood up from where he was moving the bricks and backed away.

The cut itself was a death sentence. If you didn't die of gangrene first, you knew you only had a one way ticket to the infirmary.

Stopping working though, that was foolish.

One of the guards sent the butt of his rifle into his stomach and he doubled over, dropping to the ground. He tried to plead his case. His words fell on deaf ears.

I felt for him, I really did, but saying anything would be the most foolhardy thing I ever did. It would also be the last.

The guard began kicking him, aiming for his stomach, for his head. Other guards jumped in, vultures on a helpless antelope. Some began flogging him with sticks. He whimpered, begged for mercy, prayed for God to save him, and finally plead for death to overtake him. It would be the first stroke of good fortune he got.

All the guards moved away but one; they all remained close by, wanting to watch, this was entertainment to them, a horrible ludic spectacle. He lay on his back, still alive, but just barely. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth as each breathe rattled from his lungs. He sobbed, wincing each time, his tears causing him immense pain. He didn't try to move, he knew better now.

I had seen many grown men cry before. This was, by far, the worst.

The guard smiled ominously down on him. "Gute Nacht," he spat. _Good night._

The guard stomped his foot down on his throat.

I turned away and kept working, I didn't want to see.

I could hear him choking. He made gagging sounds and the guards laughed. I could hear the crunching of the cartilage in his trachea underneath the guard's boot, the cracking that signified his hyoid fracturing. I could picture it in my head. The foot throttling him as he struggled against it. Him wriggling, fighting to get free, limbs flailing as if he were seizing. Eyes bluging in their sockets, blood spots appearing in the whites as his heart forced more blood to his brain to keep it from dying as his oxygen slowly ran out. His face turning red, then puce, verging on violet. Excess pressure bursting blood vessels, causing him to hemorrhage from his nose and ears.

The sounds will howl through my ears when silence reigns. The images are burnt onto my retinas to be replayed whenever I shut my eyes. Even when I do not witness death, I am haunted by it.


	3. No End in Sight

_Chapter Three - Reid  
December, 1944_

I thought I had seen horrors, the worst of humanity. I was wrong. Everything that I had seen since joining the BAU paled in comparison what I saw everyday here.

I knew about the war, about the Halocaust, everyone did. I thought myself somewhat of an expert. I was wrong. I knew far too little.

Now, I know far too much.

The atrocities committed against innocent people here are beyond anything I could have imagined. I don't even have the words to begin to describe it. I'm not sure I would want to. No one would understand anyway.

When I awoke here I thought I was dreaming, if you could really call it that. What were the chances that the unsub had actually _succeeded_ in opening the time tunnel? I had very nearly bored the team to tears only hours previously with every available detail about the theorized time tunnel. But never in a million years would I have guessed that any of it would be true. I just goes to show...

******

Another meager breakfast; scarce, compared to back home, a feast compared to what the prisoners get. I look about several times, making absolutely certain that no one is watching, before pocketing half of my rations. If anyone should see, I would find myself on the other side of the fence for crimes against the Reich.

I am startled when Himmler bursts into the mess hall shouting orders, rallying the troops, so to speak.

The Russians are coming.

They have not planned for this eventuality. There is no end game. The thought that the Aryans would not prevail never crossed their minds. Certainly not in the situation where they lose to the Soviets.

Here, chaos equates death. On a massive scale.

The Germans would spit on their mothers before they ever see this camp, these prisoners in the hands of the Soviets. Death is the order of the day. Death and transport.

I have done my best to keep under the radar. No names if it can be helped. Nothing to make me stand out. God help me if I should wind up on record as a war criminal...

I have yet to actually kill a prisoner. Disciplining can't be avoided. I feel terrible each time, like a little piece of my soul is shrivelling and blackening. But no one's life will be on my hands if can at all help it.

I doubt how much longer I shall be able to maintain that record... It will be noticed if I am not among those aiming a gun while the prisoners dig their own mass grave before being sent to it.

I must warn Hotch. And pray that the team is out there looking for us, that they will find us before that day gets here...


	4. The Dark Heart of Time

_Chapter Four - Emily  
December 25, 1944_

Today is Christmas Day. But, just like the last two, I feel no joy. I try to find some happiness in the knowledge that it will be the last Christmas before the end of the war, but I am wholly unsuccessful. There may not be another year left, but there are still many, many days of fighting... Many days to die...

Nonetheless, I try to hold on to the hope that I will shortly be reunited with the people I love, with my family. The hope that it won't be much longer before my baby can finally get to know her father; I've been making sure she knows someone is missing from her life, but it's a far cry from the real thing.

As she sits in her high-chair, babbling to herself as she attempts to feed herself, getting about as much mashed potatoes on herself as actually reaches her mouth, I feel my heart ache for her innocent little life. She has no idea how horrible our situation really is, how much better, how much easier our lives would be if we hadn't had the damn bad luck to be transported back here in the first place. She doesn't know her own father and truthfully, she wouldn't know the difference if he never came home; I'd make sure she always knew where she came from, but it wouldn't be the same as if they'd had the chance to bond. She sees me watching her, flashes a toothy grin, and I catch the word 'Mommy' amongst the stream of babble. It pains me to know that, though she knows the word 'Daddy', she never uses it, she doesn't even know what it means...

It has been a terrible year, filled with worry such as I have never known. I am convinced that each year is worse than the last. That can mean nothing good for the months to come...

And, today of all days, fate decided to deal a horribly cruel blow to my already bruised heart. Today, what remained of my hope withered. A terribly fitting end to a brutal year, I suppose.

I know there is no way he could have known that that fateful letter would arrive on Christmas. That doesn't take away the sting though... I had been expecting good news, to be told that things were going well and to expect him home any day.

Instead, my world came crashing down.

I can think of little that could be worse.

_Auschwitz. Prisoner. Help... _The text of the letter is ingrained into my consciousness. I can never forget.

I can only imagine what he must be going through... What Hotch must be going through...

And what of the others? Where are they? What kinds of hell are they defying?

I can't bring myself to think about it... I don't want to know.

War is hell. And I haven't spent a single day in combat...

Instead, I was left here, to ensure that the time tunnel does not close and trap us here. It has left me with much time to consider the repercussions of what we have gone through here. If, as Reid explained it, we will truly return to the exact moment from which we left, there shall be monumentuous consequences. The world we knew will be exactly the same and we will be completely different.

How could we not be after living through the worst conflict the world has ever seen?

And, try as we might, there's no way things will ever be able to return to normal. Would we really want them to? Would that mean ignoring everything that we've sacrificed these last five years? Everything we've gained?

Wistfully, I trace the words at the bottom of the letter, unable to bring myself to reread it. There is no need, I cannot forget. I feel my eyes sparkle as my fingers run across the words, feeling a connection to him through his writing. Or maybe I imagined it. It has been a long three years without him...

I close my eyes and try to picture him as he wrote the words. I quietly say them aloud as if he'll be able to hear and know that I feel the same. _"I love you."_

Turning back to the picture, I want to lash out, to tear it apart. As if that will somehow undo the horror it displays, as if it would bring an end to the evil that had caused it.

If only.

If only it could be that easy. If only I could save him. But what can I do?

Nothing. Turn it in to the government? Would they even care? It is out of my hands.

I can hear Garcia enter the little house; she has taken it upon herself to check on me everyday. She knows that I am barely hanging on. I feel a little moment of panic, she will want to know what was in the letter, having been the one that picked it up from the post office.

She can never know. She can never see. It would tear her apart.


	5. A Cold, Lonely Winter Without You

_Chapter Five - JJ  
December, 1944_

I have never had a day of formal medical training in my life and yet, I feel as if it is the only thing I have ever known. There is nothing but blood, nothing but wounded soldiers.

I often find myself wondering how anyone gets out of Europe alive. It seems there are always more casualties coming in than there are soldiers leaving. But there is no time to dwell on the reality of the point of no return that is a field hospital.

There is no time to think about anything.

We are all going purely on autopilot, fueled by adrenalin and fear. Shots ring out in the background, not as frequently as they have been these last few days, but often enough that we are constantly reminded of just how close the Germans are.

I find myself shivering despite my thick woolen jacket, but I try to keep the tremors from being visible to the soldiers as I change their dressings. I feel as if it would somehow be insulting to outwardly appear to be cold while they have even less warmth than I do.

The cold winter's wind howling through the peaks of the Ardennes is relentless, wearing away at our bodies and our will to continue fighting. Sometimes, I feel as if we are also fighting the weather, as if Mother Nature has sided with the Germans.

As I approach the next bed, the soldier lying there shifts to sit up and peels back his shirt so I can access his wound. While I slowly unwind the gauze wrapped around his arm, he says to me, "Say, Nurse Jenny, what keeps you going? What's keeping you from just giving up?"

I smile slightly at the nickname, all the soldiers who come here use it; I couldn't bear to have them call me JJ, the way my friends, my family did. I mentally reprimand myself, the way they _do_. By keeping these two worlds, war and peace to be cliche, separate, I feel the slightest bit better, almost like this is something I can chose to walk away from at any second and return to my normal life.

If only.

I should never have been here. I had spent most of the war serving in a general hospital near Bayeux, but I was suddenly uprooted and packaged up to be sent to the front-lines to serve as part of a base hospital. Now instead of communicable disease and gangrene, I worry about bullets and mortar bombs, about approaching Germans troops, about being taken prisoner and sent to concentration camps. I can still work, still help with surgery, but my head isn't really in the game. Especially now, as the Battle of the Bulge rages around us. If I am killed here, no one will know; the team will never find me amidst the bitter winter that claims the Belgian mountains for its own.

I sigh and decide to be honest with the young man awaiting my answer. I reason that it might make me feel a little better to remind myself of what I'm fighting for. He needs honesty too, to know that there are people back home counting on him, people thankful for what he is sacrificing. "I've got a little boy back home," I tell him, "Henry. He's almost a year old." I try to smile; I feel no better.

Worse, actually, knowing that there's a chance I'll never get to see my baby again.

The soldier must have sensed what I was feeling. "Don't worry, Nurse Jenny," he says genially, "You'll be home in time for his birthday, I promise."

I smile at his youthful optimism, his innocence, his ignorance. If only he knew how much longer this will last, how many more will die before peace is made.

I tie off his bandage and say gently, "Best try to get some sleep now, Doc Roberts will be making his rounds soon. You'll probably be sent back to the front-lines tomorrow."

He has an impish grin at that; raging bravado and testosterone desperate to be back in the killing fields. "Thank you, ma'am. When you get back home, you give that baby of yours a kiss from me."

I feel my eyes start to tear up. If only I knew when that would be...


	6. Kettles of Fish

_Chapter Six - Rossi  
November, 1944_

I am still confused as to how exactly this happened. One minute, I was one of Stalin's trusted military advisers, the next I was being drafted to fight. Although, I suppose it was probably for the best; I wasn't about to be reunited with the team, holed up hundreds of thousands of miles away from the front-line. I have seen neither hide nor hair of anyone I know since I arrived in this God-forsaken wasteland. I hope they fared better than to be forced to whisper in the ear of one of America's worst enemies.

It was that or be an honored guest at Siberia's finest gulag. It's amazing how fast you learn to love communism when given the 'choice'.

But that's a whole other kettle of fish. Ideologies matter little anymore. We are all fighting the same war.

Which is how I wound up here, I suppose.

I warned them that they couldn't trust the Germans... But if they decided not to heed my advice, no skin off my nose.

They learned in the end. You can trust Hitler about as far as you can throw him.

Operation Barbarossa came as a complete shock. Which is something else I'm still confused about, although not as much as how we managed to defeat the Germans. Certainly not through our own military superiority. Stalin isn't the brightest man when it comes to planning ahead, otherwise he might have seen how purging all of his experienced military officers was a bad idea... Although, I guess Hitler suffers from the same Achilles' heel. Did he learn nothing from the follies of Napoleon? You can't win a winter war in Russia.

Now, we are marching across Europe, slaughtering any Axis troops that happen to cross our path. We will reach Auschwitz in a few short months. The troops are not prepared for what we will find there. Can you ever really be, though?

Even knowing all that I do about the horrors of the Halocaust, I find myself terrified of what awaits when we cross through those gates. Each night, I pray that I shall find no one of any personal significance.

How could I live with myself knowing that I had been so close all those years and yet did nothing? How could I go on knowing that I actually helped Hitler perpetrate these terrible crimes against someone I actually know. Even indirect responsibility is too much blood on my hands as far as I am concerned.

Is it too much to hope that I will be whisked away before we get that far? That I shall finally, after all these long years, find a friendly face?

Probably, with my luck lately.

Luck. I give a mirthless laugh. I no longer know any such word. Luck is being able to fake my way through a conversation in Russian. Luck is no one caring enough to check my back-story. _Luck _was being sent to the front-lines to fight.

Going home would be nothing short of a miracle.


	7. Just Another Nail in the Coffin

_Chapter Seven – Hotch  
__September 15, 1944_

I have been assigned to the worst possible chore I can imagine. I am to serve with the corps of prisoners assigned to work the crematoria. I think I have finally reached the very bottom of the pit of despair.

SS Officer Maria Mandel has ordered us to burn Mala alive.

At one time I would have been apalled at such cruelty. It no longer surprises me.

I feel as if the only thing this whole terrible ordeal has taught me is that even the once appealing idea of escape is merely another nail in the coffin. Clearly, it did nothing good for Mala and Edek; if anything, it signed their death warrent.

I cannot imagine a worse fate than the one she is about to meet. Even mercy no longer takes pity on her. We are truly forsaken.

I follow suit with the other prisoners in my brigade as they cross themselves as the wheelbarrow carrying Mala is wheeled towards us and the waiting crematorium that shall be her final resting place.

Even from here I can tell that she refused to die peacefully, a fact attested to by her bruised face, by the unnatural angle of her arm, by the blood soaked bandages wrapped around her elbows.

Reid told me what had happened as he marched our corps to the crematoria. I pity him for having had to witness it. Is it strange that I would pity him as I live out the worst of my days, quite possibly the last of my days, such a terrible fate as I would not wish upon my worst enemies?

She slit the veins on the inside of her elbows. She yelled to rally the prisoners, inciting them to rise up. She slapped a guard. He broke her arm. The nurses bandaged her wounds as slowly as possible, hoping she would bleed out before she made it to the crematorium.

But these are only words. No account could ever convey her pain, her spirit, the importance of her endeavour. She rebelled by surviving, by fighting to the very last drop of life in her veins, by hanging on as others were letting go.

Finally, fate feels the need to intervene and sends down a ray of mercy. Reid hands her a pellet of poison. Hardly the death anyone would chose, but infinitely better than burning alive. She smiles gratefully and thanks him. _Thanks _him. For poisoning her.

What has this world come to? In what kind of world is poison mercy?

And as she is placed in the chamber and the flames ignited, we all say a prayer for her, wishing her a swift and safe journey to heaven. That God show her the mercy, the kindess, the love that she was not shown here. That she will be reunited with her dear Edek, whose love for which she died.

She is right. _Was _right...

Even if we die trying to revolt, anything would be better than this hell. I doubt the others took her words to heart though, and I no longer have the will to fight.

Each day is merely one day closer to the end. An end that is not yet written, but one that I welcome nonetheless.

A/N: This chapter and the one that follows take place on the day when Mala Zimetbaum and Edek Galinski, who were both prisoners at Auschwitz were executed. The two succeeded in escaping from the camp, but were both caught in a nearby town and sent back to Auschwitz to die. Their story isn't one of the most well known escapes, but I felt that it was an important embodiment of the tone of camp life. I didn't include an account of their escape attempt, but if you are interested, you can find more information; I think it was a rather ingenious plan.


	8. Just Another Shot in the Dark

_Chapter Eight – Hotch  
__September 15, 1944_

The smoke on the air is nothing new. Quite the opposite, actually. We'd be confused if the smell of burning human flesh wasn't prickling at our eyes and choking out our breath.

There is something different about today, though. I can feel the electricity buzzing through the air. Something is happening.

I shiver, but not from the cold. At least, not as far as I can tell. I am always cold, I hardly even notice it even more; I have trained myself not to care. No, this time I shiver from something else... Empathy perhaps.

At least, I hope that is what it is... That would mean that I am still human. Can I even feel anymore? I cannot remember.

Do I even _want _to feel? Or would that only make this life too unbearable? Sometimes I feel like those who feel, those who mourn their loss, those who dwell over this cruel reality, are the ones who die first. The ones who succumb to the terror. The ones who give up. But then again, I wasn't exactly the most emotional person before all this happened.

I know the war will one day end, that one day we will all be free. One day... But I do not know how many more will die before that day comes. I do not know if I shall be one of the lucky ones...

I do not dare hope though. I have made my peace with death, I had no choice. It will come or it won't, there is nothing I can do to change that. Hope is paralyzing; there is nothing left but death once you have succumbed to hope.

I feel that is the moral of the story that is being played out before me.

A young man, a hopeful, star-crossed lover, jumps into the noose before the guards can read his verdict. Taking control of his own destiny, his own death, before the Germans can take that away as well. If only it could have ended there, I might have been left feeling only envy for his gumption, instead, I feel pity.

The guards pull him back onto the platform and revive him. This time, as he stands awaiting his second meeting with the hangman's noose he shouts "Long live Poland!" The last word catches in his throat as a guard kicks away the stool he is standing on, making sure he dies on _their _terms.

The sad thing is that what I will remember for the rest of my days is not the valiant rallying cry that was his last words, but rather the choking sound that they bled into as the noose tightened.

I long to feel something – _anything –_ other than despair, as I clutch my hat to my heart in a sign of respect as Edek hangs. Some of the other prisoners are crying; if I am, I cannot tell. I do not know if I even can anymore.

The guards are yelling at us to put our hats back on, getting angrier with each second we do not follow orders. No one makes any move to do so. We do not care about the punishment right now, only that someone died doing what so many of us dreamed of. I can tell that along with him, many of the men are watching their hope, their rebellious spirit, die as well.

Faintly, I can hear a commotion in the women's camp. Something must have gone wrong with Mala's execution as well.

I find this strangely comforting. The lovers are together to the very end, in imprisonment, in escape, in rebellion, in death.


	9. Shades of Grey

_Chapter Nine - Garcia  
August, 1944_

We certainly aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto...

Or anywhere I'd care to be, for that matter.

I am so far out of my element, I may as well be in a whole different galaxy. Without the technology I am so used to hiding behind, I feel like I am missing a part of myself.

What's worse is that it has never been so critically important that I be able to find information, to find people, quickly. While it's easy enough to have a general idea of where Morgan and JJ are, even after four years, I still have no idea if Reid, Rossi, or Hotch are even on the same planet as us.

Trying to find information here is so mind-numbingly frustrating, it's like trying to explain e-mail to senior citizens.

And it takes just as long.

I have spent the last four years trying to help bring everyone together and I feel as if I have accomplished nothing. We are still exactly where we started, three agents missing in action. _Really_ missing. They're ghosts, quite possibly in the most literal sense. I feel as if I have been trying to catch a handful of rain.

The worst part is that Emily is counting on me to find them. She's beating herself up about not being able to help and everyday they don't come home, I think she dies a little inside. I promised her I would have found them by now. And though I don't think she really believed me, we both pretended I could promise that.

I still haven't given up hope. But I'm not sure the same can be said for the others.

I hate what this war has done. I hate what it has done to the world, what it has done to us. I hate the person it has made me. I just _hate_... I used to think that was a word that would never be a part of my vocabulary. Even after all that I have seen, after all that had happened to me, it took a lot for me to truly hate someone. Now, I hate people on principle alone.

It is so very wrong.

How far must we have strayed from everything we know to reach this point? And I feel as if it is a distance that is eaten up even as we traverse it, a distance that we can never retrace. No matter how hard we try, we only end up farther and farther away from that which we seek. An ever fading mirage, a cool drink of water amid this moral desert, that disappears as we reach out to grasp it, only to appear a little further off. A cruel image of hope that we fight to cling to, pretending as if it is real, as if that hope will get us anywhere.

More than anything, I hate how jaded I have become. The colors I wear no longer feel right, as if they clash with the horrible blackness that is my soul.

Color... If only I could remember. But I haven`t dreamed in color in a time beyond memory. Now, there is nothing but shades of grey.


	10. Another Sleepless Night

_Chapter Ten - Morgan  
July, 1944_

I glanced at the photograph only momentarily before stuffing it in my boot, I can decide what to do with it in the morning, there is nothing that can be done tonight. We didn't arrive back at our base until the cloak of darkness had fallen around us. My men left me in peace, hoping some of my irritation would fade by morning; I doubted it, but they could hope.

It had been days since I had slept properly; the nights not filled with fighting spent worrying about the ones I left at home and the ones we couldn't find. So it went until I was too tired to even think, my brain shutting down completely for a few hours of rest until that little voice would no longer stay quiet, waking me to pace. That has been my life since I shipped out.

I figured tonight would be one of those rare nights where I would be granted the brief respite of sleep, a few hours in which I could pretend like none of this was happening. I was wrong.

Just as my head dropped back to my cot, my eyes already shut fast, a horrible realization came barrelling through my brain.

I sat bolt upright and my hand shot down to pull the picture from my boot. I thumbed away some of the dirt to better see the figures, holding my breath as if it would somehow have an effect on what I saw.

It was a terrible image, a sight that would haunt you to the bitter end. The cruelty beyond anything the world had ever seen or ever would. A place that would live on in infamy. Auschwitz. Several emaciated figures, practically swimming in the prison uniforms which may have fit at one time, but were now several sizes too large. They stood the length of a large pit, shovelling gravel, the shovels they held looking healthier than they. They were little more than skeletons, skin stretched across frail frames to form a shell of a human. Some wore expressions filled with desperation, others pain, some sadness, most were devoid of anything, like their souls had moved on from their earthly suffering so they no longer felt the pain.

That alone was enough to keep someone awake for countless nights.

Then, I realized what had impeded my sleep, that little thought tickling my id. I knew one of the prisoners...

It was unmistakable. Though I couldn't have said exactly what it was that hit me over the head with realization, I couldn't possibly deny with reasonable doubt that this was him. There was just something about him that guaranteed you being able to pick him out of a crowd, despite the fact that he looked like a completely different person. What had once been a muscular frame was now the image of hunger, pain, suffering. His once handsome face was sallow and gaunt, yet bruised and swollen as if from a fresh beating. Where once had been a stony authoritative air, perhaps the occasional youthful sparkle of mischief, of happiness during the rare moments he actually smiled, there was now only emptiness, his eyes staring back at me, boring into my soul until I felt an other-worldly grief wash over me.

I didn't think I would ever sleep again.

Certainly not tonight.

Immediately, I was out of bed, pacing. I didn't know what to do, all I knew was that I needed to do something, anything. I couldn't just leave him there to suffer now that I knew.

In all the hours I had spent agonizing over his whereabouts, never in my worst nightmares had I imagined that he, or anyone else on the team, would be forced to endure so much cruelty. Although, now that I thought about it, as harsh as it sounded, it was probably best that it was him; Rossi was too old for prison camp labour, Reid too frail, and all women would have immediately been gassed. If anyone could endure the horrors of the Holocaust, it was him. Or me...but that's a whole other can of worms.

But I had to save him and I didn't know how. There was really nothing I, myself could do for him; I was charged with leading men into battle against the Nazis, assigned to serve my country, I couldn't abandon my patriotic duty for one man. Others who could have were currently missing in action.

I thought of Emily, back home, waiting. I hated to burden her like this, considering the burdens she already must bear, knowing that she would be devastated. But she was the only one who had any chance of helping him; perhaps, somehow, she might be able to change the course of the war, arming someone, anyone, with the knowledge they only found much too late. Perhaps he can be saved the remaining half year until the Russians would find the camp otherwise. Sadly, I wrote down everything I knew about the photograph and enclosed it within the paper. On the outer folds of the letter, I reminded her that I loved her, a frail attempt at taking away some of the sting that was to follow.


	11. Falling Dominoes

_Chapter Eleven - Morgan  
July, 1944_

I signal to my men to hunker down more to make sure we won't be seen. Although, I hardly think 'men' is the right word; they are boys, children, far too young to be fighting and dying for their country. But I suppose that is war.

We are waiting for the Germans, waiting to ambush them, for we received intelligence that they would be moving through the area. It is our job to make sure they never reach their destination.

A breeze scuttles through our sheltered little alcove, rattling branches. One of the soldiers whips around, searching for the source of the noise, ready to shoot at a split second's notice.

He is anxious, jumpy, unsettled, they all are. What can you expect after they were caught in enemy fire from machine gun nests on the beaches of Normandy? They were all a little shell-shocked, but I had been expecting it. Never have I held so much credence to the saying, _'Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it.' _

"Chill out, boys," I warn them, "If you start shooting at ghosts you're gonna give us away."

"Sorry Sergeant Morgan," the one boy replies, smiling sheepishly, "Just a little nervous."

"How do we know this isn't a trap?" one of them asks, a streak of hot-headedness I'm not unfamiliar with.

_'We don't' _is the real answer, but I can't tell them that; bravado is a very powerful weapon out here, we need all these kids pumped so full of testosterone and egotism that they don't have a spare neuron to actually think. Not a truth I like, but again, that is war. "Because the Germans don't know we've cracked their codes," I tell them; it could be true. Sometimes lies are kinder than the truth. "Now, quit flapping your gums and save us all a bullet in the head," I order. Ordinarily, these are things I would never even think, but I've got to blend in and this is neither the time nor the place for eloquence.

Out of my periphery, I see movement. A man, running as if the very dogs of Hell were nipping at his heels. He darts between what little cover there is to be found, bounding like a frightened rabbit. I cannot yet see him well enough to know if he might be friend or foe.

Around me, I can feel my platoon tense as one, bringing their guns to the ready. I am just lucky they haven't fired yet. "Stand down," I command. They do, barely, bringing their barrels a fraction away from the straight and narrow, but ready to aim again when they think I am not looking.

He is close enough to get a better look now. His garments are torn and dirty as if from great hardship, but still unmistakable. Striped pyjamas, as they are colloquially known, yet it seems a glaringly inappropriate term, almost making light of what they signify. There is a red star on his lapel; I do not know what it signifies, but I can guess.

We are somewhere near Zagan, Poland, just on the outskirts of which sits Stalag Luft III. The camp that held the most troublesome of the prisoners, the ones that the other camps couldn't hold, the ones that successfully escaped before falling right back into Nazi hands. Proud American POWs, sworn to fight to their dying breath, refusing to remain complacent and wait for rescue.

If I remember correctly, we are seeing one of the few prisoners who made it out of the Great Escape alive. He knows things. I know them too, but I cannot say anything without clawing at the fabric of time. But he can tell everyone the monstrosities that we are blindly fighting.

"Hold your fire!" I command, "Don't shoot!"

He is very nearly within reach of safety when he makes a mistake. He cries out, _'Help!' _but he yells it in German, "Hilfe!"; no doubt a reflex after being so immersed in their world for so long. My men do not shoot with their frontal lobe, but with their amygdala, governed by fear rather than reason.

Someone looses a shot, perhaps by accident. It misses, barely. But the sound of that first shot started the dominoes falling. The others began to shoot in reaction; this time, the bullets do not miss.

The first bullet to hit runs clean through his shoulder, no doubt shattering scapula on its way. He keeps on running as if he had not felt it. Perhaps he did not, adrenalin will do that to you. Several others miss as well. The next pierces his abdomen with a sickly squelching sound. I would be shocked if it didn't lodge in something important. Still, he continues to run, even as a crimson blossom stains his clothes. His gait is slower now, but just as determined. A third shot lodges into his thigh, a horrible collision of metal on bone. He falls to the ground, almost in slow motion; shins, then knees contact the mud as he throws his hands out to shield his face. There is a horrible sound of bone grinding against bone as something in his wrist gives way.

The whole time I am shouting, "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

He does not give up. He grits his teeth and crawls on, dragging himself onwards with every last ounce of strength he possesses. One last shot rips through his clavicle and he can no longer support himself, flopping to the ground like a rag doll.

One by one, as the adrenalin wears off, my men realize what they have done and lower their weapons. They hang their heads in shame, sorry for having let me down. "We're sorry, Sergeant Morgan," one of them whispers.

I take a wary look around before crawling out of our bluff to go to the man. Some of the men call warnings after me, "What are you doing?" "You're gonna get yourself killed!" "What if it's a trap?" I block their voices until they are nothing more than white noise.

I reach the man and press my hands to the wound on his abdomen. "What's your name?"

"Arthur Whittaker, 27th Infantry Regiment, Wolfhounds," he recited proudly. He brought his hands up to clutch at the front of my uniform, desperation making his eyes wild. "The tunnel was too short, came up right in the middle of the guards' path. They spotted it as we were making a break for it, they shot and killed everyone on sight, must've been fifty people..."

My suspicions were confirmed. "Just hang in there man, our base isn't far, we'll get you to the medics."

He shook his head. "They'll come looking for me, for anyone who made it out alive. They can't let us live, we'll ruin them." His mind seemed to wander to a separate tangent. "I was in Auschwitz before they brought me here. I know too much."

I tried to talk over him, to calm him, to make him quiet so he would conserve his energy. "We'll get you out of here, send you back home, you'll be safe."

Again, he shook his head. "It's too late. They'll come looking for me and when they find you harbouring me, they'll kill all of us." His eyes became impossibly more frantic and he began patting his pockets, looking for something. "I need you to promise me something."

I nodded. "Anything."

He found what he was searching for and pressed a muddied photograph to my chest. "Take it. Tell the world." Blood bubbled around his lips and he licked it away from the parched flesh. "Go. Before they find you here. Go!" And, as if to make me feel better about leaving him behind, he shut his eyes.

I knew he was faking. He knew that I knew. But we both pretended we didn't.


	12. Long Sobs of Autumn Violins

_Chapter Twelve – Morgan  
__June 6, 1944  
__D-Day_

Today, we parachuted down behind enemy lines. My first thoughts as I stood at the doors to the plane, thousands of miles of freefall yawning out below, were not ones of fear or excitement, but ones of irony. Never, in a million years, would I have guessed that the first time I dove out of a plane of my own free will would it be with an assault rifle gripped tightly in my hands...

Nor would I have guessed that the first thing I would be doing upon landing would be to join forces with the local resistance movement in order to execute guerrilla warfare against the Germans.

The cloak of darkness still surrounds us as we are greeted by the small committee of local resistance leaders who are to shelter us in their bunker until we are ready to launch our mission. We must wait out the hours until the Allies begin to land, pulling the Germans' attention externally, away from their axis of control.

As we walk, I glance back to the other two members of my Jed team. I find myself unconsciously likening them to my real team. The second officer, like Rossi, is unreadable in the face of so much pressure, undoubtedly running through our task in his mind. Although, I wonder if the reason that I cannot glean anything from his face is due to the fact that he is a native to France.

The radio operator, on the other hand, reminds me of Reid. Smart as a whip, fluent in French and English and whatever jargon is necessary to operate the 'Jed-set' radio; but still obviously anxious. I cannot blame him. So much is resting on his shoulders, on all of our shoulders. Every few minutes he must reassure himself that he still has the radio, that he has not lost our lifeline between us and Special Forces Headquarters in London.

I do not doubt that much of the anxiety hanging oppressive over our heads will vanish with the dawn of the morning. It is hard to think of much of anything when you are out in the killing fields, the primordial part of the brain, intimately acquainted with hunting, with killing, welcoming the once familiar way of life.

I am almost excited to set out, as if we are preparing for a massive, high-stakes game of capture the flag. Albeit, a dangerous one. We are to be like a pack of gremlins, wreaking massive havoc as we travel through enemy-occupied France, attacking railways and roads, downing power stations and telephone lines. Leave nothing useful in our wake.

They shall finally understand the meaning of 'all hell breaks loose'...

I have ordered my men not to be captured at any cost, that it would be better to die by their own hands rather than fall into those of the Germans. Hitler's Commando Order is in full force, although I cannot tell them this in so many words. All I can say is that they will be shot on sight should we get within range, uniformed or not.

For now though, we hunker down with our French cohorts, for a few sparse moments of rest before the dice are thrown. A few moments to pretend to sleep. A few moments to say a hurried prayer for our continued existence. A few moments to gaze longingly at the photos of the ones waiting for us back home, vowing that we shall one day be together again.


	13. The Sands of Time

_Chapter Thirteen – Emily  
__June 6, 1944  
__D-Day_

Sometimes, I forget that here information does not travel at the speed of light. It may be weeks yet before we hear any news...

And yet, I find myself unable to do anything else today. I merely spend hours pacing, waiting, praying. If it weren't for Kaye, I think I might have cracked already from the overwhelming anticipation. As it is though, she keeps me anchored, forcing me to busy myself in the mindless tasks of feeding her and changing her. I'm not sure what I'll do once she goes to sleep, though, and it's cruel and unfair to put so much dependence on the shoulders of someone so completely dependent on me.

I cannot recall a time when I have been so anxious... But then again, it was never the case that I had to pray for the survival of the one I love as the Allies launch the largest amphibious assault in history.

Every time I say it, I still cannot believe that it is true, that this is really happening. Surely, I must be dreaming and any second now I will find myself in my bed at home, heart pounding, drenched in a cold sweat, tangled in my sheets. But with each passing second, I am disappointed yet again.

Though Derek's letters have been censored to prevent knowledge of his location from falling into the wrong hands, I have a feeling I know where he will be stationed... He would be satisfied with nothing less than front-line combat.

But he was already stationed in Europe, so he won't be among those landing on the beaches of Normandy. Which I am beyond thankful for; I saw _Saving Private Ryan... _My dreams at night are haunted by visions of seeing the soldier remove his helmet, astounded that it had stopped a bullet, only to be hit in the head by a second bullet.

Of course, Derek would never be that foolish, certainly not when he has a child depending on him. But you don't have to be foolish to be a target for enemy fire.

Especially when you're fighting behind enemy lines. His letters mentioned, though merely in passing, in the hopes that the censors would miss the reference, that he would be serving as a 'Jed'.

I almost wish he hadn't told me. Perhaps he thought I wouldn't know what that means.

I know. And I would have expected nothing less.

But expectations are a far cry from hopes, from reality. I had hoped that he would be content with staying out of no man's land, with staying safe. He hoped to save the world.

Reality has disappointed us both.

He does not understand that this is not our war. What's past is past. Done and over. Already written. We cannot change it.

I have not always thought that, but I have had much time to brood, to become jaded. If our presence were going to change anything, it would have happened by now. But nothing changes, this is still the same war we learned about all those years ago. Pearl Harbour still took everyone by surprise. Soldiers still die faster than they can be replenished. The war still drags out, over half a decade...

We are nothing more than pawns, lost in the sands of time.


	14. Night

_Chapter 14 – Reid  
__May, 1944_

I recall with exceptional clarity reading _Night _in high school. I remember every horrifying detail. To this day, I sometimes feel that, even with my exceptional intelligence, I was much too young to know of such monstrosities. I'm sure that my mother would not have approved, even now she does not like the idea of me being so intimately acquainted with the worst of humanity.

Sometimes, I still have nightmares about the horrors contained in that slim volume of prose. Only now, the nightmares are not limited to my sleeping hours.

Today, yet another train arrived with more prisoners. Not in itself an unusual occurrence, far from it nowadays. This one is different because of who I know to be on the train.

Elie Wiesel and his family.

I felt like the bleeding heart as I watched them disembark the train, frightened and unsure. I wanted to reassure them, to promise them that at least some of them would make it out of here alive. But that would mean promising death to some of them as well.

I wonder to myself if I would want to know were our positions reversed. Would I feel better knowing that sooner or later death would end all my suffering? Would knowing that one day I would make it out alive, a stronger and better person, someone who would one day change the face of history, make it all worth it?

Or would it just be disenheartening to know that all the suffering I would be forced to endure was all for nothing? Or to know that, no matter how much I might pray, that death would never come?

But, in the end, I do none of those things. I merely stand before them, stoic and unwavering. "Men to the right, women to the left." I am hardly aware of myself speaking the words.

I watch as the families share one last longing look, silently praying that they would one day be reunited. If only... My heart aches with the knowledge that the poor souls sent to the left will immediately gassed. Then it aches for those sent to the right, for they will endure a much worse fate, a much slower and much more painful death, if not physically, then certainly emotionally, spiritually. You do not come out of here the same person you were when you arrived; you cannot help but lose a part of yourself.

Sometimes, I think of the Lord of the Rings. Not because it was widely rumored to be a parable mirroring World War II, something that Tolkien discredited. What sticks with me is something that Sam said to Frodo; "It's like in the great stories, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were and sometimes you didn't want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But it's only a passing thing, this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come and when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer."

And even though I know that one day this will all be over and that good does eventually win out over evil, I continually find myself wondering how that could possibly be true. The future always seems to be overshadowed by dark clouds.

He then goes on to say that, "...folks in those stories had lots of chances to turn back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding onto something... That there's some good in this world and it's worth fighting for."

And once again I am filled with doubt. Is there any good in this world? If so, I have not yet seen it... There is only evil and eventually, we all either bow to it or fall from it.


	15. The Angel of Death

_Chapter Fifteen – Hotch  
__April, 1944_

Reid is likely the only thing that has stopped me from being sent to the gas chambers thus far. I have been here far longer than the other prisoners. I have been here far too long. I am not the most-skilled or hardest working inmate. And when prisoners exceed their usefulness, they are slated to die.

Perhaps it is because the SS officers do not realize how long I have been here. Supposedly, they keep records of all the prisoners, but aside from assigning us all a number when we arrive, they pay little attention.

Reid is continually assigning me to new jobs in the camp, ensuring that none of the guards become too familiar with my face. Most of them are drunk a majority of the time anyways. And not exactly bright. I'm not sure they could pick me out of a line-up of cattle.

Some jobs are better than others. Some are hard, physical labour. And, though the work is exhausting and the hours are long, at least you have something to occupy your mind, the endless hours do not seem so long. Others are a 'privilage', though ones I would rather not have. Like collecting the valuables off those gassed upon immediate arrival to the camp.

The worst are perhaps the easiest physically, yet the most excruciating. Like working the crematoria. Or that to which I am now assigned, working in the 'hospitals'.

Never did I understand the meaning of the word cruelty until the day I met Josef Mengele. Nor did I understand evil...

Even after all the horrors I've faced, all the despicable unsubs I've put away, I will never cease to be amazed by the extent of the cruelty contained within that one man.

Nothing, not alcohol, not drugs, not even death will be able to wash clean the memories of what I have seen in the halls of this hospital. People injected with horrible, painful pathogens in order to better protect the German armies. Jews irradiated, sometimes without their knowing, or castrated, forcibly sterilizing them to prevent the spread of the Jewish race. I have no wish to even think about the many monstrosities I have seen committed here.

Few things are able to make me feel sick to my stomach. Few things are able to bring me to tears. I cannot help but want to do both as I glance over at the furthest bed, occupied by a set of twins, stitched together.

Their hands are badly infected because of the shoddily resected veins. The gangrene has almost overtaken the limbs and will shortly devour the rest of their bodies.

They will be in the crematoria shortly. Though not before being crudely and apologetically murdered, dissected.

The worst part is that these young girls trusted him. Ripped from their families at the gates, he became the only father they had. They called him Uncle Mengele. He lured them into a false sense of security, making them feel special, letting them keep their own clothes, allowing them to attend lessons, letting them play soccer, even giving them candy.

And, like so many children before them, they believed him, fell for his unabashed lies. They will not be the last.

Last month, his own child came into this world. Josef Mengele, one of the most despised of all war criminals, was allowed to bring a child into this world. This horrible world of pain, of misery, that he was so instrumental in helping create. A man who has sent so many children to their deaths, both directly, using his own hands, and indirectly, using the gas chambers, was allowed to have one of his own.

A little boy named Rolf, Reid tells me. I cannot help but wonder what he will become... Has he already been doomed by genetics, by his father's legacy? If he knew from whence he came, would he even want to live?

Realistically, his life was over the minute he inherited his father's DNA.

Another life ruined by this horrid excuse for a human being, forced to carry around the weight of his father's crimes for the rest of his life. Doomed to be hated because of his genes, because of his name, because of things he could not possibly control, because of things we wasn't even alive to witness.

How can the world just stand by and let this happen?


	16. Half Acre of Hell

_Chapter Sixteen – JJ  
__March, 1944_

I am working ward duty tonight, taking care of the fifty or so men fresh out of surgery sometime in the last ten days, even as the surgeons churn out even more patients. They lie on their canvas litters that have served as their stretchers, their operating tables, their beds since they were first picked up by the aid men on the field. They are arranged in haphazard rows, strewn randomly throughout the tent.

I am just preparing the penicillin syringe to begin injecting the patients when there is a commotion from one of the nearby surgical tents. I cannot quite make out their muffled yells at first, presumably still trapped inside the canvas operating theatre.

Then, I understand as there is the sound of gravel crunching under combat boots and the familiar macabre shadow puppet show as two bobbing lanterns accomanying the noise cast their glow on the canvas wall as they pass, illuminating the shapes of several litter-bearers carrying a casualty on a stretcher sprint towards the outskirts of the camp, the whole time shouting at the top of their lungs, "Gas! Gas!"

The poor bastard they're carrying likely won't last to morning. There is nothing we can do for those unlucky enough to be infected by gas gangrene when there are so many other patients to worry about. They pose more of a risk to care for than we are able to accomodate. Perhaps if we had any ability to see it coming, we might be able to help them... But we never know until the surgeon cuts into the skin, exposing the infection site, the festering air trapped inside finally escaping... That's when you know, the unmistakable smell stinking to high heaven.

Not so long ago, I would have balked at the thought of being able to _smell _someone dying from the inside out while still alive... It still makes my stomach churn or perhaps that is just the lingering smell combining with that of the hospital dump, the distinctive acrid stench of burning bloody bandages and discarded limbs. But, I no longer find the idea so appaling. Which is perhaps, in and of itself, a little unsettling.

But then again, unsettled is just another constant state of being nowadays. Along with exhausted, cold, hungry, anxious, and a little nauseous. Nothing is normal.

One of the technicians pokes his head into the tent and calls my name. I am wanted in the newly abandoned operating room to help prepare it for the next surgery; no new patients can be cut open in that room until we have done our best to remove the last vestiges of gangrene.

The operating room is just a glorified tent, no more outstanding than the rest of the tents we live and work in. The operating tables are nothing more than two sawhorses which support the stretcher the patients already lie on. Outside, generators hum as they power the lights and the meagre tools we have at our disposal.

Myself and a few other lackeys who drew the short straw immediately set to work scrubbing down the canvas walls with disinfectant and resterilizing the tools. Suddenly, from around the blackout curtain seperating the one large tent into two operating rooms, a surgeon looks in on us.

"You," he snaps, directed at me, "We need your help."

I follow him into the next room, feeling a mixture of anxiety and excitement roiling at the pit of my stomach. Helping out with surgery is the highlight of any day.

Distantly, through a dazed fog, I hear the surgeon telling me to hold the patient's leg while they saw it off.

I wonder why I don't throw up.

Thinking about it makes me want to...

Every history book ever written will run on for pages about the lives of soldiers, the sacrifices of soldiers, the fear and pain of soldiers, the bravery of soldiers... Never will you read about the aid men, the field nurses. Almost like we didn't exist, like the war effort could have succeeded without us.

It is such a pity that no one will ever understand what it is we go through, that no one really tries... The soldiers, I suppose, make an effort. We are a part of their lives, we share in their daily hell, we are a part of their strange pseudo-family. Or, at least, as much as we ever dare to be. If I have learned anything in my time here, it is to never get too close to anyone you meet in the field... Because there is nothing akin to the pain of having a friend die in the trenches, knowing that you couldn't save them when you should have.

Quite simply, you must put up that iron curtain and block out every emotion. Otherwise, you'll end up losing yourself. And, when there are so many people depending on you, putting their lives and their trust in your hands, you have no choice but to keep hidden that all-consuming pain or risk everyone succumbing to it.

I think I finally understand Hotch. I now know why he never smiles...


	17. Winner at a Losing Game

_Chapter Seventeen - Rossi  
__January 27, 1944_

Today, the Red Army has finally succeeded in lifting the German siege on Leningrad, nearly three years after the city became an island amid the turbulent Soviet sea.

The beleaguered people of the city cheer for the harbingers of freedom as we march through the streets; it has been a long three years for them. They have gone without food, without mostly everything. They watched their homes, their livelihoods burn to the ground, their history desecrated. Their whole world collapsed a little more with every passing day until it was isolated to the meager rooms in which they lived day to day; I feel claustrophobic just thinking about it, which is saying something, considering that all of my days are currently spent cloistered in tiny fox-holes while artillery shells rain down.

Some of the soldiers break rank to hug, to celebrate with the citizens, whether family or not. Freeing their people, their kin, their blood brothers is a victory of enormous proportions.

For me though, it holds little worth. It is just another small battle we have won in the overwhelmingly massive war. Just another insignificant drop in the ocean. We have not really won anything yet.

And I am here for the long run, the overall victory. I am here to win the war. Because it has become crystal clear of late that that will be the only way I shall ever get out of this God-forsaken country, the only way I shall ever be reunited with the team, the only way I shall ever return home. That is, if I do at all...

At the rate things have been going, I may not live to see any of those things come to fruition. Some days, I think that would be preferable to having to endure more of this hell.

Though, at least on the killing fields, I get a chance to really feel alive, in a way that I have not felt for a time beyond memory. There is something instinctively primal in killing that awakens the senses like a heavy shot of espresso.

And, at least here, I am out of Stalin's grasp. More times than I can count, I have said that serial killers make the best profilers...but Joseph Stalin would blow them all out of the water. I could swear that man, if he can really be called human, can see into the minds of others as if their thoughts were written on their faces.

It was quite disconcerting to be bested at my own game time after time. I suppose that is a risk I willingly ran when I chose to attempt to masquerade as one of his military advisers.

As we continue our purposeful march, I pull out my best Slavic accent in order to scold some of the younger soldiers who seem more than content to stay here where there are comfortable beds to sleep in and good food to eat. We have much further to go yet before we can even think about resting. We have lives to save, countries to set free, battles to win. And there are sure to be plenty of those ahead of us.

I snap at the troops to continue moving; we've got a train to catch. Now that we have pushed the Germans into retreat, we can once again claim our rights to the rail-lines that they held siege to for so long. Travel to the borders will go much faster now that our means of transport are not limited to goose-stepping.

Perhaps now, we will make it to the front before the war ends. Just under a year from now, we will break through the Fascist defenses and liberate Auschwitz and join forces with the Allied troops...

In just under a year, I should finally be able to return home. At least, so long as my memory serves me correctly.

Sometimes, I lay awake at night and wonder if I have finally snapped and this is all some figment of my crazed mind. Or if I am merely dreaming. Or if I have died and am stuck in some horrible limbo, having to prove my worth.

Or, perhaps the most disconcerting of all, that this really is happening, but I am stuck in some alternative time-stream different from that where the rest of the team landed or a universe in which the Allies lose the war or some alternate reality from which there is no escape...all of which result in me being forced to live out the rest of my days in this damn place...

The first one, at least, is a very real possibility from what I remember Reid saying, although I'm not sure about the latter two. I really should have paid better attention... One thing's for sure though, if I ever get out of here alive, I will never dismiss, ridicule, or ignore Reid's rambling facts again... Because, as it is becoming painfully clear, my life could very well hinge on those ramblings...


	18. Orchestrated Hell

_Chapter Eighteen - Garcia  
__December 3, 1943_

"_The crew captains walked into the briefing room, looked at the maps and charts and sat down with their big celluloid pads on their knees. The atmosphere was that of a school and a church. ...Concentration was the secret of success in these raids; as long as the aircraft stayed bunched, they would protect each other."_

Like very nearly every other house in the entire country, tonight we are listening intently to the radio as the unmistakable voice of Edward R. Murrow filters through the room, relaying the harrowing tale of his nighttime journey aboard _D For Dog_ as it dropped five tonnes of powerful explosives over Berlin. A rarely seen glimpse into the world of which we know so little and yet are so closely embroiled.

This is the cruel reality of the world at war. Where wrong is right and all morals seem to have taken a rain-check. A world where killing is the norm, a profession of honor. A time when people feel no guilt over dropping incendiaries over entire cities, destroying homes, ending lives, all for the sake of taking revenge on one man...because it is what they _must _do.

How strange it seems that _one man_, one horrible man, is to blame for all this. He's only human, however despicably so, and yet, he has dragged the entire world into a bloody pit of chaos. That he has managed to bring entire countries of normally kind, loving, peaceful citizens to arms, convincing people that they must fight and kill and die just to promote or prevent his cause. We have seen a lot of terrible people doing what we do, but this...this is a whole other eschelon of evil.

We listen in awed silence as the trusted reporter, the citizen's voice of honesty over the course of the war, describes in detail the flight with the kind of discomforting truth we would not get anywhere else. In a haunting protrayal, he describes the unnatural calm of the Lancaster's crew, their almost-detatchment from the horrors of the situation as if they were merely flying food to orphans instead of committing mass murder, all debate over whether the term murder can really apply to war aside. In fact, of the seven men aboard the aircraft, the only one who seems to be affected in any way at all is the inexperienced reporter, still trying to gain his air-legs.

He describes the flight with the same frightening complacency. The whole ordeal of being sighted, of being shot at, of watching friends and comrades take a sharp nose-dive towards an unavoidable death, all spoken with the kind of air one might use to describe an in-flight movie or what one had for dinner, obligatory for lack of anything else, but nothing really special.

Then comes the bombing. And, listening to the narration of the expanding entropy that unfolds as massive clusters of firebombs rain down on the city, I feel sick to my stomach. We aren't the only ones out there bombing, the Germans and the Japanese and other hostile countries are dishing it out as good as they're getting. They're out there attacking the Allies, dropping bombs of their own.

There are people we love and care about out there in the firing line. They could easily find themselves on the wrong end of one of those hostile mortar bombs, blown to pieces like china in the path of an enraged bull. Lives over in fractions of a split second, before they even have time to comprehend that they're going to die. And who's to say that, escaping their many enemies, they're safe even then? They could easily fall victim to friendly fire...

As I listen to the end of Murrow's anecdote, I am struck by a rather disturbing thought. These men are not unlike the team... It's a job and, at times, it's horrible. Sometimes at night, they go to sleep thinking they can't go one single second longer, can't face one more day, can't see one more person die, can't fire one more shot...but each morning they get up and face it all over again. Because they have to. This is the only life they know, danger and death and dying and killing defines them. And they'll continue to do it every day for the rest of their lives until there is nothing left, until they either die or are so worn down that all that remains is a shell of the person they once were, just like Elle, just like Gideon...

"_Berlin was a thing of orchestrated Hell - a terrible symphony of light and flames. It isn't a pleasant kind of warfare - the men doing it speak of it as a job. Yesterday afternoon, when the tapes were stretched out on the big map all the way to Berlin and back again, a young pilot with old eyes said to me, "I see we're working again tonight." That's the frame of mind in which the job is being done. The job isn't pleasant; it's terribly tiring. Men die in the sky while others are roasted alive in their cellars. Berlin last night wasn't a pretty sight. In about thirty-five minutes it was hit with about three times the amount of stuff that ever came down on London in a night-long blitz. This is a calculated, remorseless campaign of destruction. Right now the mechanics are probably working on D-Dog, getting him ready to fly again."_

A/N: The italicized portions are sections of the actual transcripts of Murrow's seventeen minute long broadcast entitled "Orchestrated Hell", which aired on December 3rd, 1943. You can find the entire transcripts online as well as recordings of the broadcast (which I highly suggest you listen to if you get the chance). Source: Library of Congress, Milo Ryan Phonoarchive, tapes 774-775.


	19. One Day in the Life of Aaron Hotchner

_Chapter Nineteen – Hotch  
__October, 1943_

It's not yet four-thirty in the morning when reveille is called. Instantly, we are all wide awake and out of bed faster than firefighters getting a call in the middle of the night. The unspoken, yet widely known, truth is that the last one out of bed could be punished; you never know if or when to expect it, but it's still better not to take the risk. We can sleep when we're dead.

Of the thousand or so inmates in our barracks, there's usually a few who don't live to see the morning, passing away in their sleep from malnutrition or exposure. They are the lucky ones. Today, one of the four men sharing my bunk was among the dead; I felt him go in the middle of the night with one last shuddering breath.

Last night was a particularly cold night, winter having come early this year, bringing with it a biting chill and a thick blanket of snow. I used to enjoy winter...now it's only a season of even more suffering.

We hurriedly wash up, anxious not to be the last one finished their morning ablutions. We scrabble for place at the wash buckets, splashing the frigid water over our faces; it's a shock to the system, only the first of many in the day, though definitely not the worst. I have not been here as long as some of the others and I have been receiving more rations, so I am not quite as weak as the others making it easier to fight my way to the front of the line. I had never been one to use my strength to take advantage of the weak, but here it is the only way to survive, meager though it is; though I felt bad about it at first, I no longer feel anything when I push the other men out of my way.

As the other men wrestle for their place in line, I pull on what layers of clothes I have, my summer fatigues layered under my winter uniform. They aren't really that different, the winter set thicker by a hair and a good deal itchier, particularly irritating considering that we aren't even given a single pair of underwear. Slipping my feet into the standard-issue wooden shoes, I eagerly await the point when the cold numbs my feet; we aren't given socks and the shoes are ill-fitting, rubbing my soles raw and bloody until I no longer feel able to take another step.

I'm ready for roll call earlier than the rest of the barracks, lining up to wait until we are ready to set out for the mine. Reid is there waiting for the rest of the Kommando to line up for counting before setting out for work. Like each morning, he updates me on the events in the camp that only the officers are privy to. All four crematoria have been converted to gas chambers and are running at full capacity. The Gestapo are doing everything within their power to smoke out the remnants of the underground Polish resistance group; since Pilecki's escape in April, they've redoubled their efforts to squash any free-thinking still running rampant. The prisoners have organized the Kampfgruppe to attempt to send out information about the camp, smuggling out photos and burying notes; as far as he knows, he is the only one aware of these efforts.

Finally, the rest of the barracks is lined up with me, being counted off by number and star. Mine is a barrack of asocials: gypsies, blacks, and others not readily sorted into groups of Jews, Soviets, and POW's; but it doesn't really matter who or what we were, because now we're all the same, all united by the black star pinned to our lapels.

******

The camp orchestra, made up of prisoners too talented to kill, is playing as we march back under the camp gates, their words ever mocking us with the promise of freedom. I've never really understood the purpose of the music as we march to and from work... To motivate us? To promote the German culture? I don't think it's working.

Then, we line up outside the barracks for roll call once again. It's worse in the evening. It's colder and darker and everyone is more short-tempered after a long day of hard work and enduring the elements. It's not like the morning roll call, when the only ones missing are those who died in the night, there are so many more ways for prisoners to go missing during the work day and if they do, it's the guards and prisoners alike who suffer.

Today is one of the bad days; one of the prisoners, having caught wind of Pilecki's escape decided to make his own break for freedom. I didn't see it happen, but word spreads quickly in such close quarters. Now, until he is either found or proved to have escaped, we will be forced to stand here in the snow and the freezing cold. It could be hours, we've endured this punishment before, often well into the night. I also know that, if he really has escaped, ten of us will be randomly chosen to be starved to death.

As the SS officers travel down the row of prisoners to question us, everyone remains tight-lipped, unwilling to sell out their brother. I do not blame them too much, since some of the men are new to the camp and some are more attached to each other, but I am by no means a stranger to camp life; if they reach me in their line of questioning, I will be telling them everything I know. The longer we are standing out here, the more we are putting ourselves at risk, not to mention that after a certain point they will no longer give us our daily rations and, considering how little we get already, we cannot risk losing that.

It's already past ten at night and we have been standing here for more than four hours. In a few hours we won't get dinner. And, if it takes all night, we will still be expected to go to work in the morning.

Reid stops the SS officer currently interrogating the prisoners. They speak in a hurried whisper and I am once again astounded by Reid's intelligence, he was already teaching himself German before this whole damn ordeal began, but he had to have learned the intricacies very quickly to have survived this long. Reid begins to gesticulate wildly and I can pick out that he is pointing to me. The other guard cringes at Reid's words, Reid must be of higher ranking in the Nazi social strata...a sentence I would never in a million years have thought I'd say.

Reid then begins walking towards me in his most threatening manner; it's all an act, a means to keep the other prisoners and guards frightened of him. However, I've known him long enough to know that it's all a facade and, were I in any other situation, I might have laughed at how comical the dichotomy between his camp guard mask and his true personality is. As it is, I cower and pretend to be frightened.

He grips my upper arm tightly and leans in close, pretending to threaten me, but in actuality whispering, "I told them I'm taking you away to punish you for not working hard enough today, act scared."

He bodily pulls me away from the rest of the prisoners and I can hear shouts drifting after us, some in German, spurring him on, some the voices of my fellow inmates, encouraging me. He drags me to the barracks, shouting as we go, only releasing his grip when the door is shut behind us and he is sure no one has followed.

I can see he has brought my rations to my bunk, some of the preserves left over from his meal added to my bread and water. I smile my thanks before grabbing a crust of bread and scarfing it back as if I had not seen food in years.

"I need to make it look believable," Reid says quietly and I can hear the conflict in his voice, "I need to make it seem like I punished you..." He doesn't want to have to do this, but he knows it is the only way we will continue to go undetected.

I nod; I know it is the only way. I move towards the centre of the room and brace myself. Reid pulls back his hand to hit me, but he stops himself. I open an eye and see him just staring at his fist.

"Just do it!" I tell him, "You have to!" He meets my eyes and I see the turmoil he's battling; to save my life means to hurt me. "I can take it, just hurry up and do it before someone comes!"

This time, he nods. For the second time, he pulls back his fist and this time, he does not hesitate. I feel it contact my nose with more force than I would have thought him able to muster.

"Again," I tell him. And it seems so strange to be encouraging more pain.

He complies, gaining confidence with each successive hit. Again and again, he hits me and I can already feel the swelling, the bruising becoming apparent. I won't – can't – deny that it hurts, but I would rather it be Reid than any of the other guards because I know that he will stop before I die, that he feels some compassion, some remorse.

With one last hit to the jaw, he seems content with the damage he has done. He pours some clean water into one of the wash basins and allows me to clean away the blood he has managed to draw. As I hold the cold cloth over my eye, I hear him whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear over the ambient noises that are omnipresent in the camp, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I tell him seriously as I return to my bunk, "You were only doing what you had to do to survive, what you had to do for me to survive. You were doing me a favour." I'm not sure he'll ever believe that, but it's the truth.

"Go to bed now," he tells me, "It looks like the others might be awhile yet. Try to play up your injuries tomorrow, so no one gets suspicious."

I finish eating quickly and the stale, preserved food feels like the most lavish meal I've ever eaten. Reid leaves me alone once I'm finished. We say nothing more to each other and I'm not sure whether it's because there is no need or because pretending things are like old times would just be too painful, knowing that there's a very real chance we will never make it home again. Either way, with a quick backward glance, he shuts the door behind him.

I wait a moment for the frigid air that flooded in with the open door to disperse before taking off my summer fatigues and stuffing them inside the pillowcase containing the bulk of straw on which I rest my head at night; it's the same pattern I follow every night, afraid that someone might steal my uniform while I sleep, knowing that it's not unheard of and I would be punished for having lost them. I rest my shoes under my pillow as well, fearing theft; it makes for an uncomfortable night, but they're better fitting than most of the inmates' shoes and I can't risk losing them.

And, crawling onto the bunk, I have perhaps another minute of conscious thought before I am dragged into the rare and meager luxury that is sleep, almost hoping that I won't wake up tomorrow.


	20. Paper Hearts

_Chapter Twenty - Morgan  
__September 3, 1943_

Italians Surrender to the Allies!

These words will emblazon the front page of newspapers across the world, heralding the blow to Hitler's crumbling empire as yet another of his allies concede to our superiority. But this is only inflating unfounded dreams of a quick end to this global conflict...dreams that were never meant to be. Nearly another two years shall pass before we can even dream of seeing home again...if we ever get to see it at all. Watching the army officials pose for pictures with the citizens, so happy to be out from under Mussolini's thumb they would have hugged the devil himself if it meant freedom, I am suddenly struck by the realization of how little things change...or how much things haven't changed as the case may be. All these people care about is the politics; it's all a game to them. But the reality is, this isn't a game, this is the lives of millions, the fate of the world. They're holding the future of countless generations in their hands and they're treating it as if it were a baseball, rather than a snowball. Fleeting, delicate, fragile; one wrong move and they doom us all, quite possibly to the ruin of the world, certainly the world as we know it.

Were I a man of less conviction, the sight of this might have filled me with enough disgust that I would simply walk away from it all. As it stands though, that's not the kind of man I am. So I squash down the feelings of despise and plaster on the face of an obedient soldier. Because sometimes I feel like, more than anything, the most important thing is to show the world, friend and enemy alike, a face of solidarity, to show that we will stand united to the bitter end.

Or at least, that is what I tell myself. The truth is that I'm not here to fight for my country or for freedom, I'm here because I have to be, because we somehow manage to have so damn much bad luck. Faster than you could say, 'Oh, shit!', we lost absolutely everything, our homes, our jobs, our families, each other, the world we knew... And it will take nothing short of a miracle to get them back. All that we have left to cling to is our lives and there's no guarantee we'll keep even those. Even then, what kind of life will it be, should we somehow manage to return home? How are we supposed to bear the scars of a battle we weren't even alive to see?

No one understands. I'm not even sure I do...

******

In our barracks, there is much celebration for having brought down an entire country of 'damn Nazi bastards' as one of the soldiers so eloquently put it. I didn't bother to correct him, deciding to let him have this one night, seeing as it will be the only carefree night he gets for the next two years. He's too full of piss and vinegar to know the difference anyway.

Bottles of anything that will get you drunk bought off the locals make the rounds as the men let loose while the other officers and I pretend not to notice. One of the bottles is proffered to me as I continue past the celebratory scrum; I force a smile, clap a hand on the boy's shoulder, and politely refuse.

"Come on, Sergeant Morgan," he wheedles, "Let loose a little, we're winning!"

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch..." I warn.

I watch him struggle not to roll his eyes. "You sound just like my Pappy," he says. But he says it with a smile. Then, he extends a small box, offering, "You want a cookie, Searge? My mom sent 'em."

This time I accept his offer and my smile is more genuine at the thought of getting another care package. Right now, they're all I have left of anyone close to me.

I leave with a quick thank you and a reminder not to get too hammered, knowing my warning probably won't be heeded, before continuing on to the officers' tent.

Sure enough, waiting for me on my cot, wrapped in standard brown post paper, is a box, crammed full of reminders of home...or something like home. We all know it's not the same, no matter what you call it. You can put lipstick on a dog, but that doesn't make it a lady. But right now, I could care less what you call it. The only thing I care about is having some semblance of normalcy, of pretending I'm home with those I care about most.

There are letters, there's always letters. One in Garcia's flamboyant handwriting, written in her signature colorful ink. She tries hard to maintain that same happy-go-lucky personality, as if it will somehow make things easier, more normal, but what's said and what isn't said don't always tell the same story. She's jaded, wounded, the colors are a lie, a facade. Not that she'll admit it to me, as if it would somehow be belittling everything I've gone through. She's not the same person anymore, but then again, who is? How could you be?

The other letter is in Emily's deliberate, pensive script. Her words reveal little, other than the fact that she somehow manages to compartmentalize as well as ever, though perhaps not as easily. As ever, she pleads for me to be safe and come home. She describes Kaye's latest milestones and it's both reassuring to know that there is still something good and innocent in the world, something to keep fighting for, and yet, it's like a stab to the heart reading of all the things I've missed, everything I should have been there for. Apparently, she doesn't sit still for a second, a real handful to watch since she seems to look for trouble. My mom would have loved to hear that; she always said that the second I was able to walk, I was a little hell-raiser and she always said that my kids would take after me. Emily also says Kaye is a really chatterbox, even if it is half-gibberish; she says her favorite word is 'Dada', as if she misses me greatly. The thought breaks my heart even more.

There's a picture too, as if it won't seem like I'm so very far away. Kaye clings tightly to Emily, still suffering from her separation anxiety it seems. The infant's dark hair is pulled into two pigtails, tied off with ribbons; she looks so unbearably adorable in her little patterned sundress that it's physically painful for me to not be able to sweep her into my arms and shower her with kisses. Her big brown doe-eyes stare coyly from the depths of the photograph, looking so much like her mother. One tiny hand is held out, waving to me, mimicking Emily. It's so unfair that this is all I have of them.

The remainder of the box's contents, though perhaps trivial in nature, mean just as much as the letters. Each one is a reminder of the carefree past we once had and it somehow manages to make me both wistful and thankful at the same time. A small tin of cookies, Garcia's top-secret recipe, just like she used to bring to the office around the holidays. A copy of _Horton Hatches the Egg_, no doubt Garcia's way of reminding me to smile on occasion. An original copy of _The Little Prince _which, despite being a children's book, somehow manages to give insights into the human condition, which is no doubt what Emily finds so appealing in it. A new set of dice, considering that I'd lost mine in various rounds of liar's dice. An array of other various foodstuffs and hygiene items of amazing bulk, considering the small space in the box. Every piece, down to the clean toothbrush, reminds me of what, who, I'm fighting for.

Sighing, somewhere between contended and homesick, I settle on my cot, letters in hand, prepared to read them twenty times over before sleep hits.

We defeated an entire nation today, but the only victory I feel is that of having made it through another day. The only reason I continue to put up with this crap is everything this little parcel stands for.


	21. Old Blood and Guts

_Chapter Twenty-one - JJ  
__August 3, 1943_

Some people say that when you become a parent, you gain a mother-hen instinct. I'd seen it with Hotch; after Jack, he became much more protective, not just where Jack or children in general were concerned, but with everyone he cared about. I'm starting to see it in myself now.

You don't want to get on my bad side. If you threaten someone I feel responsible for, so help you God...

This was supposed to be a normal day, but it quickly turned into something much more ominous. Something that could not only impact those involved, but the entire company, the entire country, even.

Perhaps that's being a tad melodramatic, but there's no denying that this is going to have a wide-reaching impact.

General Patton's visit to the hospital started off like the visit of any other army official. He spoke with the hospital's commander, talking about the war and the wounded and inconsequential banalities. He spoke with some of the doctors and nurses, myself included.

He's been here before, so we've built up something of a rapport. He's a very charming man, for the most part, as much as any gruff, crotchety old soldier can be. He asks me how Henry's doing and I make something up, since there's nothing else to do. I plaster on a smile when we speak, but he can't seem to tell that it's all for show. He's no behavioural analyst.

He walks between the beds, speaking with some of the men, occasionally joining in on a hand of poker or a round of liar's dice. He's amiable, relating easily to the boys, giving off an almost paternal warmth. His presence seems to calm the boys, as if it helps them to know that the army officials care, that their lives are worth something, that they're out in the battlefield serving as more than just target practice.

I watch him from the corner of my eye as I make my rounds, feeling that something isn't quite right, like I should be waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I'm well-versed in hiding my anxiety, after years of coping with the pressure.

Certainly better than some of these men, though you can't really blame them when they've just had molten lead raining down on them. No one understands shell-shock in this day and age, but most of these boys are clearly suffering from it.

Coming up to the next bed, I find it's occupant in tears. "What's wrong, Charlie?" I ask softly, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and handing it to him. I keep my voice quiet, not wanting to draw attention to him; I know there's an unspoken need to keep up appearances, to not appear weak despite quite possibly being on their deathbed. I know only too well what that's like...

"I'm okay, Nurse Jenny," he promises quietly, through a heavy sob.

I give him a frown. "I hope you don't think I believe that," I say gently, "Whenever you're ready to tell me the truth, I'm waiting right here."

He gives a watery smile. "I know." He pauses, sniffling. "What would we do without you?"

But my attempts to keep his frazzled nerves away from prying eyes doesn't go as well as I had hoped when, just as I finish changing his bandages, another sob escapes his lips and this time, it's not so quiet. This time, it doesn't go unnoticed.

Patton strides purposefully over. Staring down at Charlie, he asks, "What's the matter with you?" His tone is unreadable and I can't be sure if he's concerned or judgemental.

Faced with an army official of such high-ranking, someone who holds so much power over him, who could impact the rest of his deployment, Charlie suddenly becomes much more nervous. "It's my nerves, I guess," he stammers, "I can't stand shelling."

I can't blame him. It's hell out there in the hot zone. I don't have to spend time behind the guns to know that. I see it every single day, I know it better than most of the army officials who've never spent a day dealing with the reality of the horror that is this war. It's clear in every bullet wound, in every lodged piece of shrapnel, in every blown off limb.

If I had expected Patton to comfort the boy, to sympathize, I was sadly mistaken. His reaction is the exact opposite. Faster than should have been possible, his mood turned a complete one-eighty, flying into a rage. He starts cursing like a sailor, his face turning a shade off crimson, spittle frothing at his lips. He shouts at Charlie, calling him a coward, demanding that he return to the front to die like a man.

Charlie only sobs harder, trying for everything he's worth to stem the flow of tears, but he can't. He attempts to stumble through a desperate apology, some kind of justification, trying to plead his case with Patton.

But he's impervious to the poor boy's pleas. As he continues to shout, a crowd gathers around the sparring parties as if it were some kind of ludic spectacle, some kind of entertainment. Doctors, nurses, patients, even the hospital's commanding officer are among those unable to tear their eyes away.

Then, as every gaze in the ward is bearing down on them, Patton draws back his hand and I find myself subconsiously cringing as he strikes Charlie up the back of the head. Charlie gives a little yelp and tries to hide the pain, but not quite pulling it off.

Then, before I quite know what's happening, I feel my blood boiling. What kind of coward can inflict pain on a traumatized boy who's lying in the hospital suffering from wounds earned while defending the freedom of their country? Who's the real coward in this situation?

Without thinking, I find myself making to approach Patton, to call him before the carpet for having the gall to pick on a poor, defenseless boy like Charlie. I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to say or do, but I know I can't let him get away with this.

But I've barely taken two steps when I feel a hand tightly gripping my upper arm. I whip around to find the source of the impediment and come face-to-face with my supervising physician. "Don't do it," he whispers, "It's not worth it. He'll end your career here so fast it'll make your head spin."

"It's not right!" I hiss, "He can't just walk all over these boys, who put their lives on the line to save his ass!"

"I know," he placates, "Please, don't do this. He'll get what he deserves, but it's not up to you to dole out such ends."

I glare at him for several moments, but he doesn't flinch and he doesn't back down, his grip on my arm remaining tight. He's right, I know, I don't have the power to make any kind of impact.

I sigh with irritation, but fall back into line to wait for things to work out. But it's becoming painfully clear to me that things rarely work out just because it's right or it's good. Sometimes, evil wins. Sometimes, it's hard to tell the real evil. Sometimes, it's hard to tell who wins. Sometimes, no one does.

Right now, I'm finding it hard to believe anyone will win in the end. How can anyone win when so much bad must happen, so much blood must be spilt in order to achieve such an end?

A/N: True story. A major shame for General Patton and the army. You can learn more about it, I'm obviously no expert...my knowledge is more based in events than people, with the exception of Stalin (my IB History class focused on him) and some of the major players in Hitler's regieme.

On another note, after this update, I won't be updating for awhile because I'll be going back through the chapters and making some major changes. If you know me or my work in general at all, you'll probably be able to figure out what the major issue is. I just realized that I was making everyone happy but myself and the only real reason I should be writing is to make myself happy. It's supposed to be a positive experience and it just wasn't. I don't know how long the revamp will take, I'll probably just chip away at it, rather than do it in one go, so it might be a few weeks. Once I start posting again, you'll know it's been corrected. If, after reading the changes, you no longer feel this story is for you (and I'm sure there will probably be a mass exodus of readers), no hurt feelings. I'd like to thank you for sticking with me and reading and reviewing, you've all been so wonderful. I just hope you'll give the new version a chance and I hope you understand why I have to do this (:


	22. Playing With Fire

_Chapter Twenty-two - Reid  
__May 16, 1943_

They told us to prepare for a massive influx of prisoners; they're liquidating the entire Warsaw ghetto. Most of them will be gassed immediately, I'm sure, as punishment for the rioting.

But I'm not sure they fully understand the far-reaching effects this could potentially have...

The camp as a whole functions like a living organism and damage to one element is essentially damage to the entirity. The kind of damage the might not be immediately apparent, lying in wait for years before coming back to bite you in the ass.

But really, this isn't about fifty years from now, it's not about ten years from now, it's not even about a year from now; it's just about _now_. They don't care how this is going to affect the future, it's just a race against time to execute as many Jews as possible before they get caught.

And I truly do believe that they know what they're doing is wrong and that they're going to get caught. What I can't for the life of me understand is why... Well, I know _why_ they're doing it, I'm just trying to fathom _how_ they can do it, how they aren't being eaten alive with guilt. I suffered for weeks whenever I was responsible for killing an unsub and, no matter how horrible their crimes were, no matter how many people they'd killed, it never got any easier because they were still _people_, they were still somebody's husband or son or father... Yet, none of that seems to matter here, it doesn't matter what kind of family, what kind of life they're destroying; it seems to leave no impression on them whatsoever... I have to wonder whether it's a matter of truly having no conscience, no soul, or whether they're simply chosing not to see the evil in what they're doing, being selectively blind in order to spare their minds the moral anguish.

Whether blind or evil, though, it's just plain foolishness now that's preventing them from realizing that this isn't just something that's going to be swept under the rug. The prisoners know things, they have ways of hearing things they shouldn't, much more so than the other guards realize, probably more so than I even know. Surely, they already know of the impending arrival of the Polish resistance movement members and they can no doubt guess what is going to be their fate when they do get here. Word travels fast, spreading amongst the prisoners like a virus, inciting reaction.

The guards have no idea what they're dealing with, what they're bringing down on themselves; they're asking for trouble. The fact of the matter is, you play with fire, you wind up burned and right now, they're striking matches in a gasoline factory...

Putting resistant prisoners, set on escape, on rebellion, on disobedience, in amongst the general prison population is just like asking the dog to guard the cake.

I can see how this is going to play out, the other detainees hearing stories of the rebellion, of how they fought back for months, even managing to kill some of the SS officers, it will incite a slowly dying flame of resistance within the others to grow. Though the guards' efforts have been strong and persistent, not all the prisoners are broken, some retain even the tiniest fragment of hope and, given the right circumstances, it will grow. Because here, hope is the most valuable resource, though not one readily in supply. But once it starts to grow, nothing can stop it, it will slowly overtake their minds like a wild vine, choking out everything else. Soon, the guards are going to have a real fight on their hands...

For now though, the men on their daily march through the gates, heading off towards the mines, remain broken. They see no light, nothing left to live for; they must have a near-Herculean mental strength to continue on despite the grim face of the reality that is their life. Sometimes, I think that if it were me, I would have just laid down and died, rather than continue to live like this. But then, I've always known that dealing with harsh realities was never my strong suit, escapism is always easier.

I asked Hotch once how he keeps going everyday when it would be so easy to give up. He said he does it because he has to, because at the end of the day, he wanted to know that the camp hadn't broken him, that he had won, even if it was a pyrrhic victory in the truest sense of the word. He said what doesn't kill him has to make him stronger and, when all this is over and we're back at home, he'll be a better person for all the suffering he's borne.

My thought is always _if _we make it home, but I never say it, I could never inflict more pain on him when he's already suffering beyond my wildest imagination.

A/N: New chapters!! I'm finished with my edits, so I suggest you go back and read the other chapters so you know what's going on, but the most important change is that Morgan and Hotch have switched places...for reasons I'm sure you can fathom. I'm much happier with this version :)


	23. Arbeit Macht Frei

_Chapter Twenty-three - Hotch  
__February 20, 1943_

I remember very little of the last several days, the combination of thirst, hunger, and exhaustion compounding with the sensory deprivation of the dark crates in which we were crammed during the transport making everything run together in an indistinct haze. That might be best though, judging from the number of prisoners who don't survive long enough to make it off the train.

The guards are pointing guns at us, yelling vociferously in a language we don't understand, as we're forced down the ramp out of the packed cars. People shove in their eagerness to get off the train, to see sunlight and breathe fresh air, fearful of being punished for being the last one off; some of the older prisoners, barely strong enough to stand, get knocked over and trampled amidst the stampede.

Dr. Mengele is waiting for us, wearing an impossibly clean white suit. He stands in the middle of two roads and I'm struck with the overwhelming symbolic nature of that simple thing. He exudes an air of power, as if he sees himself as some sort of god; in a way, I suppose he is, holding all of our lives in his hands at this moment, deciding whether to send us to the gas chambers for immediate extermination or to save our lives, at least for the time being, and send us to work in the camp. Left, right, left, right, he gestures to either side after a scant glance at each approaching person, deciding whether or not they would be useful for hard labour.

As I walk up, he gives a precursory glance, considers for a moment, then asks my age. I lie, telling him I'm several years younger than I really am, hoping to make myself seem more capable. He is silent for several more moments, frowning. Then, he gestures to the right and I hurry away before he changes his mind. I can't be sure which fate I am being condemned to, though most of the women and children have been sent to the left, so I can only assume that they will be the ones to die immediately.

Then, several guards surround us, still relentlessly keeping their guns trained on our chests. I would imagine that if any of the prisoners were liable to make a break for it, to attempt to escape, it would likely be the ones just arriving, the ones whose spirits have yet to be broken. They shout at us and, though I do not understand the words, I follow the others who begin to march.

The march seems to take hours, though in reality, it is likely only minutes, our perceptions warped by the ever increasing feeling of weakness. Then, we reach the gates to the camp. And, as we pass under the sign, its iron words mocking us with false promises of freedom, for the first time, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the all-encompassing hopelessness of the situation. It becomes very clear that this is real, that this is my life, and I have no idea when, or even if, I shall ever get out. I could very easily die here. I'm not a person who breaks down easily, but in this moment, I want to just keel over and weep for everything that I've lost or will loose in the coming days and weeks. For what might be the first time in my life, I would like nothing more than to be overtaken by death in this moment before I truly have to learn the meaning of suffering.

We are sent into a small room where we are forced to surrender all our clothes, not even permitted to keep our underwear. It only serves to reinforce our denigration to the level of animals, to that of less than human.

Then we are shepherded into another room where we are forced into uncomfortable seats and guards carelessly shave all the hair from our bodies. Watching the brutal way they pull at chunks of hair and hack at them with scissors before driving the shears over the skin as if they were mowing a lawn, rather than clipping a human head, I have never wished to be bald more than in this moment. It would no doubt save a lot of agony, judging by the way the men cry out as their newly hairless skin is rubbed down with alcohol, no doubt stinging harshly as the chemicals burn at fresh wounds caused by the rough cutting.

The next room we are forced into is equipped with showers. Not the kind of 'showers' that the other prisoners were sent to, real showers, as we are forcibly cleansed. The water is cold and we scramble to wash as quickly as possible to minimize the time spent under the spray, despite the fact that we are all rather dirty after the several days spent aboard the train, once used to transport livestock.

Finally, we are given our prison uniforms, not only serving to further denigrate us with the fact that we no longer have an individual identity with the conformity of the clothes, but also a minor torture in and of itself, seeing as they are rough, itchy, and ill-fitting.

Then, we must fill out a little card, listing our personal information and our next of kin. I wasn't sure what to put, seeing as anyone I know to be related to me is more than sixty years in the future and anyone else I would trust enough to list as my next of kin is who-knows-where in this hell-hole of a reality.

We're each assigned a serial number which is tattooed on our left forearm, which is another striking reminder of the undeniable harsh truth of this existence; this is permanent, a reminder that will be with me for the rest of my life, one that will forever carry with it the horrible memories that are sure to be associated with my internment. And it once again demonstrates the lack of individuality, seeing as we no longer have an identity, our lives being compacted to nothing more than seven digits indelibly inscribed onto our skin.

We're also given a triangle, the color of which denotes our category. Yellow for Jews, purple for Catholic clergy, among others; most of us are given the black star though. Asocials, everyone who doesn't quite fit neatly into the other categories. Most of them are gypsies; I lied and said I was one as well. At least the Germans are discriminatory against everyone equally.

Then, they photograph us. Three different pictures that will be kept with our information cards to be filed away among the prison records. If I die here, at least there will be proof, something that will irrefutably prove to the people I care about that I was here, a concrete example of my last days.

The whole prepartory process alone is a shock to the system, inexplicably exhausting, as if it has lasted for hours, but is in reality only the beginning. We are once again sent on a march along the compacted dirt roads, the wooden shoes we have just been given cutting and scraping against our feet, seeing as we have not had time to develop callouses; the first of many brutalities, though undoubtedly not the worst. We are brought to a small grouping of cabins, which some of the other prisoners who understand German explain to be the quarantine camp.

Here, we are told that we will be 'trained' for camp life. While it is assured that we don't have any illnesses that will proliferate through the camp population, we will be taken through our paces, learn to fall in line and remove our caps on command, be trained in exercises, taught to correctly pronounce German words and sing German songs.

Immediately, the blockfuhrer and his subordinates force us to participate in exercises, nothing more than busy work as far as I can see. Most of the men seem unfazed, having passed Mengele's assessment, assured that we are more-or-less healthy, though the occasional one managed to slip through his net. They will undoubtedly be the first to die, as I can already see them wheezing, clutching at their chests, unable to keep up with the set pace.

The final, and perhaps most brutal, example of the horrors of camp life is what happens next. One of the guards suddenly shouts, gesturing to one of the older men. After a few moments of yelling at the frightened man, he commands him to run towards the fence. I can see it in his eyes that he wants to question why, but he immediately thinks better of it and decides to cooperate. He starts off at a run and, for a second, I think it is mindless entertainment for the guards to watch someone run at the electrified fences to certain death. I am sadly mistaken though, as it turns out, because several sharp shots ring out, piercing clean through the man's body. I watch him fall to the ground, seemingly in slow motion, and I feel my heart hammering with alarm.

The guards laugh, clapping the shooter on his shoulder. I would later learn that this was a rather common-place occurrence when one of the guards wanted a day off. There are so many more horrors here than I ever even realized and I once again wish to die right here and now.

Even if I do make it home again, nothing will ever be the same. I will never be the same person.


	24. If Beggars Were Choosers

_Chapter Twenty-four - Rossi  
__February 2, 1943_

They say Hitler made three critical mistakes in how he waged war, that perhaps if he had done these things differently, he might have won the war; the first was the bombing of London, the second was trying to wage a winter war in Russia, and the third... Well, I don't really remember what the third one was; I was never really very good at history in school. They say experience is the best teacher though, in which case, I think I'm probably qualified to be a historian by now.

But back to the winter war in Russia thing. There's nothing quite like being an integral part in one of the major turning points in the war, witnessing first-hand the defeat of the world's biggest enemy since smallpox.

But it's been a long and bloody road to get here. An entire year of fighting. One of the bloodiest battles in the history of modern warfare. Nearly two million lives lost, soldiers and civilians alike. The cost to defend Stalingrad is steep.

The Germans who have been beleaguered inside the city for the past several months are pleading for mercy, as they should be, though it is unlikely they shall be shown any. I find it hard to feel any sympathy for anyone who could have found it inside themselves to kill the families, the women and children, in whose houses they cloistered themselves like cowards to avoid our bullets. I don't bother to find out what becomes of them, some combination of not caring and not wanting to know because there are some things you're really better off not knowing; once you know, there is no way you can ever unknow and that is what drives you to the brink of insanity and pushes you into the abyss. For me, it is enough to know that they will get everything they deserve, either by our hands or by the devil's.

Looking out at the city, I see little more than piles of rubble, once proud and majestic buildings filled with the history of a nation left crumbling by the relentless bombardment of Luftwaffe. Many of them undoubtedly became tombs, encasing the bodies of their inhabitants who had little more than split seconds in which to realize their whole world was literally about to come crashing down around them.

The few citizens who managed to escape the scourge of the Germans slowly trickle out into the streets, eager to watch their tormentors receive a taste of their own medicine, hardly daring to believe this whole ordeal is finally over. It has been a very long year for all of us and it seems surreal that it is finally over and we have won; there were many times that all hope of victory seemed to dissipate before our eyes, times when the Germans controlled more than ninety percent of the city. It was times like that that I was sometimes tempted to just surrender, times when I had to wonder what the hell we were doing and how we ever thought we could possibly win this, times it would have been so much easier to die than to fight another minute; those were the times I had to remind myself that the fate of this fight was already written, that scant glimmer of light at the tunnel was usually enough to fight off the overwhelming malaise.

Right now, as the road blocks are finally lifted and supply trucks can finally relieve the starving people, I want nothing more than to eat a hearty meal which has not spent the last few months rotting at the bottom of my pack, drink about a gallon of clean water, take a warm shower and change my clothes, then fall into a real bed and sleep for the next week straight. Small dreams.

Well, if we're wishing for stuff, I'd like to be home, in my own decade. I'd like to sleep in my own bed and wear something other than army fatigues. I'd like to cook myself a real meal, something that'll stick to your ribs, my secret fettuccine recipe maybe; anything other than preserves and rations. I'd like to take Mudgie for a long walk and revel in the kind of non-judgemental company only a dog can give. Hell, I'd even like to be back at work, tracking down a brutal murderer; at least then I'd know that the rest of the team is alive. Anything except spending one more damn day here.

I don't think that's asking for too much...to have everything just be normal again.

Alas, none of that was meant to be, not even the immediately attainable wants. The troops at Leningrad are in even worse shape than we are and it's our duty to relieve them, to help them beat back the German onslaught. From one hell to another.

No rest for the wicked...


	25. Fatherhood

_Chapter Twenty-five - Morgan  
__October 12, 1942_

I found it very ironic that the letter came today of all days, on Emily's birthday. It's not a particularly significant day over here. We're preparing to pick up camp and follow the front, no real fighting for time time being. But all across the continent people continue to fight, winning and losing. People die, others wish they would. People keep on living, some of whom wouldn't if life was fair. A day just like any other. But it means something to me.

It's such a pity that post is so slow. Apparently, I've been a father for almost four months and didn't even know it. Well, I knew she would have had the baby around then, but having a general sense of her due date is not the same as actually _knowing_...

More than anything, I wanted to be there, with her, that day. I wanted to be there when she brought our child into the world.

But we all have to make sacrifices. We all have to give up things that we love for the sake of the team, the sake of our safe return home.

Some of us more than others. Some of us had to give up everything. Some of us had to give up things we never even really had... Like the child I never even got to meet.

All I can hope for right now is an eventual return home, eventually getting to know my daughter. However faint that hope may be...getting fainter every day.

_Daughter_.

No matter how many times I repeat the word to myself, it never really seems to sink in. Probably because I haven't held her yet, haven't heard her cry.

A small, realistic part of my brain keeps repeating that I probably never will...

All I have right now is a picture. A black-and-white photograph of a dark haired, dark eyed infant with my features and her mother's smile. All I have of her for the next three years in all likelihood.

Kaye.

That was the eventual decision for her name.

Emily wanted me to be there when the baby was born so we could decide on a name together. We tried to maintain normalcy, discussing names via letters. But it took far too long to really be _normal_. It just wasn't the same.

Nothing is the same. Nothing will ever be the same.

It stared out as good-scary when we'd first found out about the baby. Now it's just scary. Scary because something could happen to her before I ever get to meet her. Because something could happen to me and I'll leave the two of them all alone. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

Some of the other men in the company have missed their children being born. It's always a bittersweet occasion, having missed something so monumental and knowing they might never make it back home, yet also knowing that their world would be a much darker place if not for that infant at home, waiting to meet them.

I always feel like it isn't quite the same. My world and that in which these boys live are light-years apart.

Some of the men ask what news I got in my letter. We always share our joys and tragedies on those rare happy days when letters arrive. I tell them the truth, since I have no real reason to lie. They all congratulate me and tell me to wish Emily and the baby their best when I write back, there's even the occasional joke that I'd better hope the baby doesn't look like me. It's so strangely normal, yet not; the normalcy in and of itself is rather frightening.

The rest of the letter talks about the first few days after the baby was born. She says not to feel bad because I'm not missing out on much, just sleepless nights and diaper changes. But I feel bad anyway, since I didn't want to miss those things.

She also doesn't lie. She says she thinks Kaye knows something's missing, knows I'm not there, always waiting for me to walk into the room. Apparently, when I don't come, she cries.

And, before I really know what's going on, I find that I'm crying too. I quickly wipe away the few stray tears, hoping no one notices.

I'm sure they see, though. I was expecting mocking for being soft, but none comes. Because really, there's nothing funny about seeing a soldier cry.


	26. Out, Out Damn Spot

_Chapter Twenty-six - Reid  
__July 22, 1942_

Most of the guards are permitted to sleep in, with the exception of the blockfuhrers, who must wake up even earlier than the prisoners so they can rouse them from their uncomfortable sleep. That's my job, blockfuhrer of the gypsy camp. They aren't all gypsies, though the vast majority are, but we also have a few other asocials. All the so-called dregs of humanity that can't easily be categorized. We get the occasional black or mentally-ill prisoner, sharp reminders of home, of everything I've lost.

I hate waking up in the mornings, knowing that this isn't a dream that will dissipate when I open my eyes. I hate being the one forced to wake the men from the only refuge they have from the hell that is their existence. But it's the only way to continue to go undetected, the only way to stay alive.

Sometimes I'm forced to wonder if that's really the truth or if I'm just trying to justify everything to myself. Perhaps there was another way, but I chose to follow this path, to live this way...people always say there is evil inside all of us and perhaps I am just exercising mine. But admitting that to myself would surely mean jumping into the black depths of insanity.

At the sound of my alarm, the men are instantly wide awake and out of bed, no one daring to be the last one on his feet. Some of the guards punish slowness, though I never do, I rarely punish at all if it is completely avoidable. But the prisoners are all too scared out of their wits to remember who is kind and who isn't; they're all too anxious of us changing our minds just for the hell of it.

They need no reminder to hurry, they're all lined up outside the barracks in record time. I count them off, crossing off the names of those who died in the night, then dismiss a few among the ranks who are to receive punishment for the day before. A little part of my brain is screaming that this is all so wrong, that I was never meant to be in charge, to have this much power...I never wanted to be in Hotch's shoes. This isn't quite the same, but the principle still applies.

Occasionally, I have an overwhelming urge to speak English or I simply forget myself and the words very nearly come spilling out before I'm entirely aware of what is going on. Sometimes the words stumble over themselves even as I rush to stop them and they escape anyway. Today is one of those days. Some of the prisoners give me suspicious looks and I worry that they're going to sell me out as the fraud that I am, others seem to think I'm some sort of spy or something, working to bring the camp down from the inside out. If only... Either way, they're still frightened of me, so no one says anything.

Even I find it rather ridiculous to think that people see me as frightening. It's not who I am; in fact, it's so juxtaposing with my personality that, in any other situation, it would have seemed comical. Here, it's just a lie, a harsh bald-faced lie that I'm forced to live every damn day.

I hate it. I hate being this person. This Nazi, this SS officer, this murderer... It's not me. And I can physically feel my soul ripping to shreds every day I wake up still breathing.

But every day I tell myself that this is what I have to do. So, I continue on like nothing is wrong. And I'll keep on until something changes, until home is within reach...or until I die.

The men are no longer my responsibility once I march them to the gates, their command taken over by the guard in charge of the gravel pits where they're working today. I'm now free to do whatever I please until the work day is over. The over-abundance of time always leaves me feeling stir-crazy, nothing to keep my mind occupied from focusing in on the soul-crushing guilt, from the blood on my hands._ "Will all great Neptune's oceans wash this blood clean from my hands? No, this my hands will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine."_

There are some places I never go, though. I never dare to set foot inside the butcher shop Mengele calls a hospital. I avoid the gas chambers and crematoria like the plague. I go out of my way to avoid the punishment blocks. I don't want to see, don't want to know.

Most of the time, I hide out in the guard's cabin, exchanging the hours of waking nightmares for those that plague my sleep. I keep my interactions with the other guards to a minimum; my story isn't air-tight and my German isn't flawless, especially my accent, and I won't risk being found out. Most of all though, if I hate myself for the atrocities I commit here, I hate these men even more because they kill and harm and maim without remorse, without a second thought; I don't want their evilness to rub off on me. I sleep or read or write a log of my experiences here, even reflect on the times before everything went to hell in a handbasket, times of happiness...anything to distract myself from this hell.

Some days I try to smuggle prisoner records and photographs out of the files, hiding them amongst my possessions in the hopes of sending them to someone who can help. If only I knew where the rest of the team is, then my efforts might actually yield some progress.

Other days I find myself in 'Canada', watching the privilaged prisoners sorting through the possessions of those already fallen victim to the Final Solution. I stand there for God only knows how long, my heart aching for the lives of the people these items once belonged to, their whole existence contained in mere objects, their memories forgotten and disgraced by the greedy hands of the guards who frequently thieve the items for their own. Watching, wallowing, everything seems so much darker, but I need to know that someone remembers, that someone aches for the loss of so many innocent lives.

I like to watch the quarantine blocks, on occasion. They're terrible places, of fear and pain, the first sharp jolt of reality the prisoners receive, but it has something the rest of the camp lacks. Hope. Here, the prisoners are not yet broken.

And I envy them...


	27. Motherhood

_Chapter Twenty-Seven - Emily  
__June 26, 1942_

I hold the tiny infant in my arms as she finally sleeps. I should be sleeping as well, I need the rest and it's a commodity that will be in short supply in the coming days and weeks. But I just can't bring myself to close my eyes, to let go of her.

It's almost as if letting go of her would mean letting go of everything... She's all I have left of him. A tiny reminder of everything I've lost.

She's cooing softly in her sleep, the gentle sound chasing away the overwhelming night-time silence of the nursery. It's just as well, silence always leads to introspection and I don't think I'm strong enough to think right now, knowing where my thoughts will ultimately end up.

Garcia quietly comes into the room and gently reminds me that Kaye will still be here tomorrow if I close my eyes and get some sleep. I know she's right, but I still can't find the strength to sever the connection I feel to him in this moment, holding this little piece of him, of us. And I think Garcia knows that, but she nonetheless feels the need to be the voice of reason, even if she will ultimately be unheeded.

I give her a look, not trusting myself to speak. She gives a small smile, understanding, and she places a comforting hand on my arm. I try to smile back in thanks, but I don't quite manage, merely looking pained.

She hasn't asked to hold Kaye yet, even though it's been almost a day since she was born. I know she really wants to, I can see it in the way she looks at the infant. Were we back home, she likely would have been the first one to hold her after myself and Derek and the grandparents, bullying the rest of the team to be first in line. But she knows I can't let go, so she doesn't ask, giving me time.

I feel bad because it seems so illogical, so unreasonable, to not be able to share what should be a joyous thing. And I want to let her be a part of our supposed happiness... But I'm afraid that my whole world will end if I can't feel that tiny heartbeat, those small breaths. I know that's not true, that she'll still be here if not in my arms, but every time I think I'm ready to put her in the bassinet, I suddenly feel an all-consuming ache in my heart and I just can't bear to be so far away from her.

Garcia may not be a profiler, but I have no doubt that she knows all this nonetheless. So, she doesn't ask, knowing that I'll offer when I'm ready...if I ever am. And despite my unreasonable possessiveness, she continues to take care of me, now that the midwife has left. She comes into the nursery on occasion, gently forcing me to eat and drink, suggesting I try to get some rest. But for the most part, she leaves me alone with Kaye.

When Garcia leaves again, I once again look to Kaye, unable to tear my eyes away from her beautiful face. She looks so much like her father and it's both a blessing and a curse to see so much of him in her. I had always hoped that in this moment we would be discussing who she looks more like, together...were he here, he'd tell me she's way too beautiful to look like him.

I also know that if he were here, I wouldn't be so desperately clinging to her. If he were here, everything would be different. I wouldn't have had to go through this all alone; I wouldn't have had to give birth with no one by my side, I wouldn't have had to choose her name by myself, I wouldn't be the only one trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing. And I certainly wouldn't be using my - our - child as my anchor, as my only connection to reality.

I don't realize I've started crying until a tear spills from my eye and lands on Kaye. Instantly, she's awake, almost as if she knows I need her right now. Suddenly, I'm staring into those big brown expressive eyes - his eyes - and it hurts and at the same time reassures me.

I clutch her tiny body tighter against mine and rock her gently. She fusses quietly, but doesn't cry. I start singing to her softly to soothe her. She hasn't been alive for very long, but I've already learned that the only thing that will calm her is singing 'Home on the Range'...just like Derek used to sing while I was pregnant with her, even though she hadn't yet developed her hearing. His father used to sing it to him before he went to sleep at night.

She calms down and I'm crying more than ever.


End file.
